


But This Love's Not Material

by readfah_cwen



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 05:31:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2496230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readfah_cwen/pseuds/readfah_cwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of ways to meet someone in New York; for Kurt and Blaine, it starts with a popped button on a shirt cuff and a helpful stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But This Love's Not Material

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [suspenduedansmabulle's encounter](http://suspenduedansmabulle.tumblr.com/post/97895687140/today-a-guy-stopped-me-in-the-street-and-asked-me), and coincidentally written as a somewhat-belated birthday gift for her. Happy Birthday! :)
> 
> Title from _Fashion!_ by Lady Gaga.

_ I. _

Blaine was having a fashion emergency.

A minor one, sure. The buttons on his right sleeve refused to close. But as he rushed his way through the New York streets while trying to single-handedly close them, he decided it was an omen for a worse day ahead. He was verging on late for his callback audition and now he’d probably get there and fall off the stage and be blacklisted from performing forever on the planet of Earth and have to move to Mars to become an alien fugitive.

(Maybe last night’s Midnight Madness alien-themed movie marathon down in Greenwich with Sam hadn’t been the best idea.)

He turned a corner, the button slipped through his fingers again, and he gave up. Violating all New Yorker etiquette, he stopped in front of the first person he saw and said, “Please, could you help me out? My button, I’m in a rush …”

The guy stopped, and Blaine’s mind stuttered to a stop alongside him, because he apparently just stopped a _model_ or something. All long legs and upswept hair and cool blue eyes and a wild asymmetrical top. The guy stared at him, and Blaine remembered belatedly to lift up his arm and indicate the button.

“Please? I hate to bother you, but I’m late for my audition …”

“And you can’t show up not looking your best.” The guy nodded crisply, reaching for Blaine’s sleeve. “I get that.” Deft fingers did up the button and Blaine swore he felt sparks where pale fingertips brushed the inside of his wrist. “There. Good luck with your audition.”

“Thank you _so much_.” Blaine stupidly kept his arm up, already mourning the loss of contact. God, he so needed to get laid.

“It’s no problem.” The guy pressed his lips together, eyes darting over Blaine for a second, before he laughed awkwardly. “Um, you were in a rush?”

“I --- yeah --” Blaine fought a blush. “Thanks again. Have a great day!” He finally put his hand to use and waved, before darting off around the guy. A quick glance over his shoulder -- okay, the man was clearly a model, it was natural Blaine couldn’t take his eyes off him -- revealed that the back was as nice as the front. _Get a grip, Blaine_ , he ordered himself, finally forcing his eyes forward and his mind back on his audition.

Maybe it wasn’t so doomed after all.

_II._

Kurt was regretting his fashion choices of the day.

Not because they were backwards or ill-fitting or hideous. That never happened to Kurt. No, the problem here was that he’d apparently been dropped into Chicago, wind tearing at his hair and clothes and hat.

Gritting his teeth, Kurt prayed his hat pin would hold on, arms too full of sketches for Isabelle to catch it if it went. Sadly, his work was more important than a stylish accessory, even if said stylish accessory was _vintage_.

He was almost sure he was safe, the doors of Vogue.com in sight, when another greedy gust of wind yanked the hat right off his head and sent it sailing down the street behind him. “Oh, great,” Kurt muttered, nearly saying to hell with it and throwing the sketches into the wind. He spun around, searching frantically -- though it might already be in Ohio, with this wind pushing it.

He spotted it, lodged against a post box, right as a stranger did. “Hey! That’s mine!” Kurt shouted, stalking forward. If this guy tried to steal his hat, Kurt would drop kick him.

“I know, I saw it blow off.” The man straightened, holding the hat out toward Kurt with a handsome, friendly smile. A handsome, friendly smile Kurt recognized. Two weeks ago, on his way from work, and an unbuttoned sleeve. Kurt’s expression smoothed over, hopefully into something fetching, just as recognition flashed over handsome man’s face. “Hey, you’re the one who helped me with my shirt!”

“I am.” Kurt cocked his head to the side, smiling. “How did your audition go?”

“Great, actually! I got the role.” The man beamed. “I think you fixing my cuff gave me good luck.”

“I guess I have the magic touch,” Kurt said, common sense and decency overwhelmed by a pair of bright hazel eyes. “Ah, I’m Kurt by the way.”

“Blaine.” Another bright smile as he indicated himself with the hat. “So, how do you want to do this?”

“Huh?” Was Kurt’s dignified response. Maybe he wasn’t the only one whose decency was being overwhelmed.

“Should I put the hat back on, or do you just want to carry it?” Blaine turned the hat over in his hands, brushing away a speck of New York City grime with a grimace. “Might be better to just carry it.”

“Yeah.” Kurt pulled a face, and dropped his arms so Blaine could see the top of his folders of designs. “Just put it on there. I’ll fix it when I’m at work.”

“Alright.” Blaine placed the hat on top of the pile, and his wrists were as handsome as Kurt remembered, before pulling his hand back. “Well then …” Blaine rocked back on his heels, and Kurt smiled back, not sure _why_ he was starting to feel so flustered. “I guess I won’t keep you from work.”

“Work. Yes.” Kurt glanced over his shoulder at Vogue.com. Why did he have to be a responsible adult? He faced Blaine with a sigh. “Thanks for rescuing my hat.”

“Just repaying a favour.” Blaine ducked his head, grinning. “I’m just glad I could be of service.”

Kurt nodded absently, wondering if he should dare to ask Blaine’s number, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. “Ugh, sorry, that’s probably my boss.”

“Okay.” Blaine pointed somewhere behind him. “I’ve got to get going anyways. Nice seeing you again, Kurt.”

“Nice seeing you too, Blaine.” Kurt watched Blaine go, clutching the papers to his chest and likely crushing his hat, but he found it hard to care. Then he gave a shake of his head, spinning on his heel.

Time to get to work. Not time to pine after cute semi-strangers who were into performing and stylish to boot. That just had no appeal to Kurt.

Really.

_ III. _

Blaine cautiously peeked his head out the coffee shop doors, relieved to find that the sun was peeking through, the rain only evident in the murky puddles that stretched across the uneven pavement. The freak rainstorm in the middle of his day had not been welcome, and Blaine’s lack of umbrella had sent him running for cover. A heavy sweater saved his shirt but, a medium drip and his hair tamed best as he could in the bathroom later, he was ready to take back alleys to scurry his way home and re-gel his hair before rehearsals that afternoon.

Which meant he wouldn’t be able to catch that sale at Brooks Brothers, but well, that was life.

“Blaine?”

Blaine started, looking over to find Kurt -- Kurt -- from last week standing there, wearing an elaborately draped knit poncho, white, tight ( _tight_ ) jeans, and hair perfect. It helped that, unlike Blaine, he had checked the weather report that morning and had an umbrella. One with a smooth white wood handle and matched his outfit perfectly, in fact. Blaine grinned, happily surprised.

“We meet again.” Blaine stepped back, holding the door open for Kurt, who murmured thanks as he stepped in. As he walked past Blaine got a hint of his cologne, Kurt’s elbow brushing his chest. “How are things?”

“Good.” Kurt considered him. “Didn’t expect the rain, did you?”

“No.” Blaine winced, reaching up to futilely try to press down his hair. “I know, it’s a mess. I’ve got to go home and fix it.”

Kurt tutted, then grabbed Blaine’s arm, tugging him over to a free table. “Sit.” Blaine did, looking up in confusion. “You know, I expected better than this from you.”

“I’m sorry?” Blaine watched as Kurt plopped his satchel down on the table, and started to dig through its contents. “It’s genetics, I can’t really help it.”

“Not that.” Kurt stopped rummaging to smile fondly at Blaine. The sight gave more of a kick to Blaine’s system than the caffeine did, and he had to take a deep breath to calm the sudden thump- _thump_ of his heart. “It’s cute, in that, ‘tragic sweater from Macys’ kind of way. But you go out in tailored pants but don’t carry extra product for your hair? That’s just irresponsible, and seems unlikely.”

“I normally keep some in my bag, but I didn’t have it today.” Blaine leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows creeping up as he watched Kurt pull out styling mousse and a comb. “What are you …”

“I’m fixing your hair,” Kurt said, dragging his chair over so he was next to Blaine, their knees knocking. “Face me.”

“Oh my gosh, thank you.” Blaine’s eyes widened, and he obligingly shifted, which wasn’t a big sacrifice at all, since it brought him face-to-face with Kurt. His lovely eyes were narrowed in concentration as he appraised the situation. Blaine held very still, tongue pressed up against the roof of his mouth as Kurt reached up to tug at a stray curl by Blaine’s ear.

“Okay. I got it.” Kurt went to work then, mousse worked into Blaine’s hair and comb scratching at his scalp. Blaine had never enjoyed having someone else touch his hair this much, especially in public, and he found himself relaxing bit by bit until purring like a cat or floating off peacefully to sleep like a baby otter didn’t seem such an impossibility.

When Kurt stopped, Blaine’s eyes reopened (he didn’t remember closing them, but it must have been sometime when Kurt started tugging gently on the hair at the nape of his neck) and found Kurt smiling at him. Kurt’s face was a bit pink.

“Done.” Kurt reached into his bag and brought out a square compact, and when Blaine took a look, he found that his hair looked -- good. Really good. Kurt wasn’t just gifted in looking good himself, he could clearly bestow it unto others with some magical skill.

“Were you a hair stylist at some point?”

“Just an amateur with professional hours of practise.” Kurt indicated his own hair, and Blaine nodded, laughing a little.

“Your barber must feel useless.”

“It wasn’t always that way. Back in highschool I had _bangs_.” Kurt shuddered. “It’s okay. I’ve moved on.”

Blaine thought Kurt would look very cute with bangs, but he didn’t know if that would cross some kind of line to say. Instead he said, “Well, thank you so much!” and handed back the compact, their fingertips brushing. His mouth opened like he almost had more to say, even though he’d decided he shouldn’t, when they were both distracted by the door opening and somebody going “Kurt!”

“Rachel! Over here!” Kurt waved over the short, beautiful girl in a beret who just entered. For a horrible second Blaine contemplated that this might just be Kurt’s girlfriend. The enthusiastic hug she threw around Kurt’s neck, pressing his face into her chest, seemed very familiar. Then Kurt affectionately rolled his eyes and guided Rachel towards the third chair. “This is Rachel, my best friend. Rachel, Blaine.”

“Blaine.” Rachel considered him, a wide smile crossing his face. “And how do we know Mr. Blaine?”

“We keep rescuing each other,” Blaine said.

“From fashion emergencies,” Kurt added.

“That’s so sweet.” Rachel giggled, gaze flicking between them. “Are you staying for coffee, Blaine?”

Blaine wanted to, but Kurt had saved him a trip home, which meant he could make that sale before rehearsals. And he really needed those floodwater pants with lobster-print pattern to complete so many outfits. Besides, Kurt and Rachel might have stuff to talk about.

“I have to go,” Blaine said apologetically. “But maybe next time?”

“Mm-hmm.” Rachel giggled again, sending a pointed look at Kurt. “Next time.”

A little confused, Blaine smiled at Kurt. “Bye, Kurt. Thanks again for the help. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Bye, Blaine.” Kurt waved, smiling as affectionately as he had regarded Rachel. Sweater in hand and a new bounce to his step, Blaine left. He couldn’t explain it, but everytime he met up with Kurt, he had the best day ever after. Today seemed like it would be particularly excellent, maybe even his whole week.

Kurt was officially his lucky charm.

_ IV. _

Kurt couldn’t explain how it had happened.

He had exited the Vogue.com offices a million times. He had worn a scarf a million times. More than a million times. Two million. Three million, maybe. Kurt liked scarves, and he knew how to wear them and wear them _well_. So it was with much confusion that he realized he had somehow managed to get his scarf caught behind him in the side-door while exiting the building.

He strained forward, but all he got for his troubles was a strangling sensation and wear and tear on his scarf. There was nothing else to do. He couldn’t risk ruining the scarf, and both ends were caught and he couldn’t get it over his head, and he really needed some --

“Help?” Kurt squeaked. The streets were dark and empty, and this was a side door off the main way. This is what working after hours got you. It’s not like he got overtime, and with his luck, he was going to get mugged. “Help!” he tried a little louder.

What were you supposed to shout if ‘Help’ didn’t work? “FIRE!”

A second later, footsteps sounded, and Kurt peered over and blinked in surprise at -- Blaine. Was this man even real? Or was he just a handsome and helpful figment of his imagination? Did Kurt need to get scanned for a tumour? Because Blaine’s worried face seemed very real.

“Kurt!” Blaine took in the situation quickly. “I was getting froyo when I thought I heard something.” Blaine held up a bag, and Kurt’s attention was diverted.

“Froyo? Oh, what kind?”

“I have raspberry here.” Which seemed apropos, since Kurt’s fingers had smelled like raspberry all day after sliding them through Blaine’s hair the other week. Which had been an experience, with Blaine’s dark lashes spread across his cheekbones, trusting Kurt to style him, and … Kurt hoped that his flushed face looked like it was from being strangled, not -- anything else.

“Sounds good.” Kurt cleared his throat. “So -- help?”

Blaine set down his froyo then came around Kurt’s side -- the awareness of him there made Kurt’s skin prickle warmly -- and hummed in consideration. A second later, Kurt felt a tug. “It’s pretty stuck in there. Why won’t the door open?”

“The doors are all locked automatically after nine pm. You can only get out, not in.”

“We could cut it, you’ll only lose a few inches on the end. This _is_ a really long scarf …”

“It’s also a _really expensive one_!” Kurt hissed. “You aren’t cutting anything. I’d rather _die_.”

“That seems a little …”

“I’d. Rather. Die.”

“Okay then.” Blaine tugged again. “I have an idea. Hang on.”

There was rustling and shuffling behind Kurt and he waited patiently, starting when Blaine’s hip bumped against his, an elbow digging into his ribs. He bit his tongue on a sharp comment, since Blaine was helping him. Then Blaine stepped back and triumphantly said, “There!”

A second later he was free. Kurt immediately loosened his scarf then took a deep, eager breath. Turning around, he found Blaine fidgeting with the lock on the door and -- “Are those _lockpicks_?”

Oh great. The gorgeous, helpful stranger was a _criminal_. How did relationships like that go? ‘Hey dad, meet Blaine, he loves musicals and stealing stereos.’

Blaine straightened. “It’s a little weird,” Blaine began, slipping the picks into his wallet and tucking that back into his pocket. “You’re going to think I’m weird. But. It’s part of being Nightbird.”

“Nightbird?” Kurt struggled to remember that. Was that the media’s name for a serial killer? Kurt considered his weapons. A bag of froyo. His scarf. Ooh, he _was_ wearing his hippo-head brooch. That could kill a man.

“I have a superhero alter ego named Nightbird.” Blaine mimicked spreading a cape. “Full outfit and everything. The nocturnal avenger. And sometimes the nocturnal avenger has to get into bad guy’s places, so I taught myself to pick locks as a kid. I’ve started carrying them around in case the doors are locked when I get to night rehearsals.”

“You’re serious.” Kurt stared, and Blaine smiled brightly back, ducking his head a little when Kurt gave a startled laugh.

“They don’t give us keys,” Blaine explained. “But here, I can show you the outfit.” Blaine pulled out his phone, flicking quickly into his albums, then showed Kurt a picture of himself, in a blue and black superhero outfit with a group of kids.

“Is that a hospital?”

“There are only two places I can wear it in New York: fetish clubs and kid’s sick wards. I went with the one I could tell my mom about.” Blaine slid to another picture, with a cute girl with buns in her hair showing her doll to Blaine. “That’s Alyshia.”

Kurt now felt vaguely guilty of thinking Blaine was a thief or a serial killer, when it turned out he was Father Theresa in very tight spandex. “She’s cute. Do you volunteer a lot?”

“As often as I can.” Blaine was tucking his phone away when it started to ring. “Hang on.” He answered it with a cheerful hello, but soon the conversation devolved into “It’ll be okay”s and “Don’t give up hope, alright”s until he placed his hand over the receiver and smiled apologetically at Kurt.

“I was hoping we could share the froyo,” Blaine said, looking torn, and Kurt’s heart leaped, “But my friend needs some help right now. I’ll see you around, okay?”

Blaine grabbed his bag and left and soon as he came, already back to reassuring his friend.

Kurt resettled his scarf, realizing he had failed to get Blaine’s number _again_ , and that it was foolish for him to pretend Blaine wasn’t one hundred percent completely his type.

After all, the man had saved his scarf. What more could you want in a guy?

_ V. _

Blaine had a plan.

A plan that would fix his current predicament. Not a predicament like the ones that had plagued him the last few weeks, like messy hair and popped buttons and his neighbour’s headboard banging against his wall at all hours of the night. (Seriously, didn’t the guy need to sleep?) No, the predicament was that he hadn’t seen Kurt lately.

He had been by the Vogue.com offices, had been to the Starbucks where Kurt had fixed his hair, all in the least stalkery way possible. But Kurt was nowhere to be found, and Blaine had started to get desperate. Since their first chance meeting they hadn’t gone more than a week without seeing each other, and he wanted more than five-minute bursts of conversations. He wanted a chance to actually get to know Kurt, find out if he was a model or a designer or both, share some trendy food and have Kurt smile fondly at him in a way that warmed Blaine up from the inside out.

So he was going to fix this. They had laughed about fashion emergencies bringing them together, and Blaine was going to pray that wasn’t just a weird coincidence but actually fate’s dice that he could roll.

Sitting in the subway, where he had just come up with his brilliant plan, Blaine tried to decide what emergency to create. A polo and pants didn’t leave a lot of opportunities. Could he undo his belt? No, too vulgar. Which left …

Blaine triumphantly undid his bowtie, then redid it improperly, half-threaded through his collar. Then he sat in wait.

Nothing happened on the subway, and Blaine gritted his teeth through the knowledge that _all these people_ could see him with his tie messed up. Perseverance. You had to make sacrifices to get what you wanted.

He grew steadily more discouraged as the stops went on, though. As he got off the subway, and a girl in a properly tied bowtie gave him a long side-eye. As he walked up the stairs to the street. Out on the street, under the light of day, his plan started to seem silly.

He went to retie it.

“Blaine!”

Blaine looked up, and there he was, in the gorgeous flesh -- Kurt -- um.

“What’s your last name?” Blaine blurted.

“Hummel. Why?” Kurt’s eyebrows crinkled, gaze dropping to Blaine’s tie. “Do you want me to fix that?”

“Mine’s Anderson.” Blaine nodded, and Kurt stepped in, knuckles brushing Blaine’s throat, then the heel of his palm brushing Blaine’s collarbone, as he worked to undo it. “And I was thinking, we should exchange numbers.”

Kurt’s hands froze, and Blaine waited on tenterhooks, before a warm smile crossed Kurt’s face and he got back to work. “That would be nice. We could … do something.”

“Do something,” Blaine echoed. He smiled back, figuring he could push it. “Maybe coffee?”

“Coffee would be nice,” Kurt agreed, eyes flicking up to meet Blaine’s before he refocused on the bowtie, easily redoing it. “And maybe even dinner.”

“Dinner would be nice too.” Blaine caught his breath as Kurt finished, tugging the ends of the bowtie squarely with a satisfied huff. Kurt was so meticulous, from the careful way the multitude of zippers at the bottom of his jacket were zipped and the satisfaction he took in getting Blaine’s bowtie fixed. That was one of the many little things Blaine already knew about Kurt that he liked, and being able to know bigger things and like ( _love_ ) those too was an exciting idea.

Dinner would be a good start.

“Okay.” Kurt took out his phone and handed it to Blaine, who input his number then handed it back. Kurt texted him -- Blaine’s phone buzzed -- and then Kurt huffed out a breath. “You know, I have nothing to do right now. Are  you …?”

“Just on my way home.” Blaine grinned. “Are we going to do something now?”

“We’re going to do something now.” Kurt nodded confidently. “Coffee. You can tell me about how your rehearsals are going …”

“And you can tell me about the excitement of the fashion industry.” Blaine gestured besides him as he and Kurt started to walk together.

“Today I sat on my pushpins,” Kurt said drily.

“See? Exciting!” Blaine laughed. “Honestly, it can’t beat Phil, who tried to climb the curtains in rehearsals yesterday …”

“What happened?”

“Let’s just say, I just got back from the hospital.” Blaine held up his hands. “He’ll be okay, but his understudy is stepping in.”

“And here I was hoping for a part.”

“You perform?”

“I do.” Kurt hesitated. “Maybe one of these … doing something nights could be karaoke.”

“Absolutely.” Blaine couldn’t contain his smile. “I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship, Mr. Hummel.”

“I’d have to agree, Mr. Anderson.”

\--

_And then in some not-too-far-away future ..._

“We look perfect.”

“Yes.”

“Are we sure?”

“We’re sure.”

Kurt nodded, turning away from the mirror, then spun to give it one last look-over. “We have to look perfect. With what that highway robber of a taffeta supplier charged us, we can’t afford for anything to go wrong.”

“And it won’t go wrong,” Blaine reassured him, smoothing down his lapels once more. “And they were the cheapest taffeta around.”

“God, why is it so expensive, it’s not like it’s silk.” Kurt paused. “Pretend I didn’t say that. Don’t tell Isabelle I said that.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Blaine mimicked zipping his lips. “Through sickness and in health, until death, when I’ll tell everyone you said that at your funeral then spend our millions.”

“Why didn’t they warn me I was engaged to a golddigger?” Kurt asked, nudging Blaine.

“All your friends and family are in on it.” Blaine reached over to stop Kurt, who was fidgeting with the sit of his tux. “Relax. We’ve rehearsed this so many times we could do it blindfolded.”

“Should we get blindfolds?” Kurt’s eyebrows went up. “That could add mysterious flair.”

“Didn’t we make an agreement on no more last-minute planning?”

Kurt’s shoulders slumped. “Yes. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’ll be fantastic, we made sure of that.”

“Yes we did.” Blaine grasped Kurt’s hand, squeezing it gently. “You’re probably just thinking about our Curse.”

“Don’t call it that,” Kurt sighed.

“What?” Blaine shrugged. “The fashion emergencies brought us together. But they also made my pants fall down on stage one time --”

“My cape got caught in the escalator at the mall --”

“One of my red polos got into our load of whites …”

“My jacket caught fire at Mercedes’ birthday.”

“When Santana snuck glue into my hair gel …”

Kurt closed his eyes and breathed in a pained whisper, “I was wearing sneakers when I met Anna Wintour.”

“And several other examples.” Blaine nodded solemnly. “It’s the Curse, Kurt, and you’re so worried about how we look because of it.”

“You’re right.” Kurt straightened. “But it’s not happening today. Everything is secure. We are going to go out there and kill it.”

Kurt finally turned away from the mirror and started marching towards the door, and Blaine followed, smiling fondly. When they got to the doorway, Kurt took a deep breath. “Ready?” Blaine asked him.

“Ready.” Kurt looked over, then his face worked, until he broke out into a laugh. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“Your --” Kurt looked around him, until he stooped to pick up Blaine’s boutonniere. "It fell out.”

“It had to be something.” Blaine waited patiently as Kurt tucked it into place. “ _Now_ are we ready?”

Kurt did a quick check, then swooped in to kiss Blaine sweetly. “Ready. So let’s go show everyone just how fabulous and fabulously in love we are.”

“Mm-hmm.” Blaine kissed him too, just because he could, and then they stepped out the door hand-in-hand to their waiting friends and family.

(And for once, nothing else went wrong. Or at least, not until the honeymoon and the bathing suit incident, but that was an entirely different story.)

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr link](http://boldmistakes.tumblr.com/post/100692665681/but-this-loves-not-material-klaine-1-1).


End file.
